"A bird is ever so much better company than a clock," she said; "though
when I'm here by myself I always like to hear the clock tick. It seems
as if I were not so entirely alone. But a bird is better. I talked to
Dickey to-day and he twittered back. He has such a cute way of perking
his little head to one side just as knowing as you please, and he acts
exactly as if he were considering whether he should answer 'yes' or
no' to what I say, and then it is such fun to watch him smooth down his
feathers. He washes and irons them so nicely and works away as
industriously as if he were afraid he'd lose his 'job.'"
Miss Katharine rose from the table and stuck a lump of sugar for me to
taste between the wires of my cage.
"I am surrounded by poor dead birds in the store all day," she
observed, "and spend so much of my time sewing their wings and heads
and tails on hats and sort boxfuls of them for customers to look at,
that even a living bird saddens me."
"Yes, it must be very depressing. What a shame to kill them; they are
so cute and pretty and such happy little creatures! See how cunning he
looks nibbling at that sugar," and the sister joined Miss Katharine in
watching me.
"But do you know, Kathy, I don't believe that women would continue
wearing bird trimmings if they stopped a minute to think about it.
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